


Little Things

by nightchandac



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Depression is a bitch, Other, POV First Person, but julian doesn’t have to fight it alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightchandac/pseuds/nightchandac
Summary: (First Person POV and no pronouns, so insert your MC at your will.)It’s the little things he does that make my heart ache. But he’s not alone anymore.





	Little Things

Little things. 

 

It’s the way he sighs and runs his long fingers through his hair. It’s the way he sneers in frustration and pulls harder when they get stuck on tangles and knots. It’s the way he melts into my touch when I take over, gently running my fingers through, easing the knots out with a practiced touch. He ignores the embarrassed flush of his cheeks as he leans into me. 

 

It’s the way he curses when he’s frustrated. Under his breath, so no one can hear him berate himself for making a mistake or not understanding something. It’s the way he clenches his hand in a fist: too tight, leather gloves straining or nails digging into skin. It’s the way he starts when I take his hand later, running my fingers gently over his already-healed palm. I kiss him before he can think about cursing himself for not hiding it better. 

 

It’s the way he bounces with anxious energy when he’s been idle too long. What use is he if he’s not working, not moving or speaking enough, not getting things—any _thing_ —done? It’s the way he sits when we’re finally out, coiled like a too-tight spring, looking to pounce, looking for some excitement. It’s the way he blushes when I place my hand over his, like he’s forgotten I’m here, like he’s seeing me for the first time. He balls his hand into a fist—almost, before twining our fingers together and relaxing a little. 

 

It’s the way he thrashes and calls out in his sleep, and stays silent when we wake, suffocating himself under the pressure of seeming unperturbed. It’s the way he dismisses all evidence of stress and unease with a mask of a smile, a quick half-hearted joke, a new task to distract himself with. It’s the way he focuses on something, busy work of preparing food, reading a book, tidying up, anything to keep himself—his _mind_ —busy. He sighs heavily when I massage the tension from his shoulders. 

 

It’s the way he bites his lip too hard, when he talks about himself being useful, when he starts at my gentle touch. It’s the way he seems to be made of rock hard tension, every muscle held tight. It’s the way he muffles his cries at night, woken from another nightmare. It’s the words he says to himself, thinking no one can hear. It’s the way he works himself past exhaustion, undeserving of rest because he’s not being _useful_. 

 

It’s these little things, these little bits of pain that make my heart ache. It’s these little things to punish himself, to bury himself with no intent of unearthing himself. He’s unused to a caring touch. He says he’s undeserving of it. 

 

I can’t fix him. I don’t _want_ to fix him; he doesn’t need to be _fixed_. But I can help him. I can support him, I can show him he’s wanted, I can show him he’s loved. I can show him he’s _good_. I can’t cure him, I can’t force him to see things differently. But I can help him. I can show him he’s not alone. _He doesn’t have to fight alone._

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my phone at 5:30am. Please forgive any typos, etc. I just love Julian a lot. He deserves so much.


End file.
